


when it's all over, i'll let you know

by merbunne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Artist Steve Rogers, Concerts, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Music, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Snark, Travel, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, band au, bucky and the commandos have a band, hipster garbage, so much fucking snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7109905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merbunne/pseuds/merbunne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve had been somewhat prepared to listen to music (good or bad withstanding).</p><p>What Steve hadn’t been prepared for was gawking at the lead singer the entire time.</p><p>// Band AU. Modern AU. Bucky and The Howling Commandos are the latest musical sensation to hit the big time. Steve Rogers, struggling Brooklyn artist, makes the single mistake of going to one of their shows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when it's all over, i'll let you know

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "If I ever feel better" by Phoenix! I'm still working on my post CW fic but needed to get this idea started before I just died sitting on it. May or may not be inspired by Bucky's character in Avengers Academy. May or may not make some direct references to that. Just gotta wait and see. 
> 
> Steve's artist experiences come from a lot of my own; I'm an illustrator as my career choice and frankly it can suck sometimes, not gonna lie, no matter how much I love what I do! Steve's experiences with his friends/hipster bullshit commentary/snark snark snark are also taken a lot from my time in art school/college/etc. Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: 6/6  
> I'm so stupid and forgot to select multiple chapters. Chalk it up to posting this at like 1am. Thank you to those who pointed it out -- I PROMISE this is a multi-chapter fic and you can look forward to a lot more!!!

It said a lot about Steve as a person that a simple text message would nearly cause him to fall out of his chair.

But it wasn’t exactly his fault, except it kind of was, entirely. He’d just been getting into a good groove on his latest piece -- the piece that would make him big! Maybe -- his phone abandoned on the small stool beside the canvas. It sat precarious, threatening to move at the slightest shift, surrounded by paint tubes, jars of medium, abandoned water bottles and other food trash. Really you name it and it was on this stool. He’d long forgotten the mess of it all, body pressed forward in a position that would make a chiropractor cringe as he tried to focus, focus intently on a spot that needed the _utmost_ concentration--

Sudden loud vibration and a ringtone knocked the phone, several tubes of paint and brushes onto the floor. He’d nearly stabbed the brush in his hand into the canvas -- an action that’d probably lead to throwing it across the room and giving up on this whole art career thing entirely -- and instead felt his heart leap twenty feet from his chest before settling back at a jumpy new pace. Jesus Christ. Who even needed to contact him right now?

He picked up the phone and sighed. Of course.

“You nearly caused my premature death, you know.”

“Is that so?” The voice on the other end responded cooly, unphased. “Too bad.”

“Hilarious, Nat.”

“Walked into that one, Rogers.”

“Regardless.” He managed to get himself off of the stool, stepping away from his work completely. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“An invitation.” She began. There was light noise behind her -- like she was walking home or in a cafe. Either sounded like a Natasha thing to be doing. “To come out tonight to that show I’m working.”

“Aren’t we a little old to be hanging around dive bars listening to underground alternative?”

“Some artist hipster you are. Suddenly too good for free VIP?”

“All I’m saying is the last time I went to one of those shows it felt just like college -- shitty beer included.” He snuck a gaze back at his piece. Unsatisfied, Steve huffed. “The only difference was this time it wasn’t in a solo cup.”

“That’s fair,” Was her agreement after a momentary pause to consider, “However. I guarantee this will be better.”

“I maintain doubt.”

“These wounds, how will I ever heal them?” She sounded so passive Steve glowered at nothing in particular. Nat truly would be the death of him one day. “Doubt if you must for now but you’ll learn to rethink that entirely.”

“As much as I’d jump at the chance of seeing you wrong for once, I’m in studio. Gotta keep working.”

“And the show’s at 10. You’ve got 6 hours.” No was apparently not an acceptable answer.

He sighed. Reasonably, he could get several more hours in, a little dinner somewhere nearby, and lock up just in time to head over. And Steve was many things if not entirely reasonable when his friends needed something. Even if he really, really didn’t want to be.

“... Fine.”

“Happy’s working the door tonight,” She continued as if his affirmation didn’t matter, because in many ways it didn’t -- she’d drag him there even if she had to do it literally, “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t wear the paint jeans.”

“I’m not going home. Paint jeans or bust.”

And he couldn’t help but grin as he heard her scoff before hanging up. Natasha hated his paint jeans. But all of this was her fault in the first place so whatever.

  
  


 

“So who even is it tonight?” Several hours later Steve would ask Sam over a plate of sushi that he definitely could not afford to eat regularly. They weren’t kidding about the starving artist thing -- if not for how stubborn he was, he’d seek out the eager help of his friends more often. Sam was always happy to treat, even as Steve’s acceptance of every bite was begrudging.

His friend shrugged, reaching for a piece of his own before leaning back in his chair. “As long as it’s not the screaming excuse of a pop punk nightmare that was last time, I ain’t givin’ a shit.”

“I had thought underground alternative, last time.”

“Does it really matter what they were trying to be when they blew _that_ much ass?”

“Guess not.” His smile was smug. Sam was such a nice guy -- Steve always liked seeing him this mean in contrast. A pause and he rolled his shoulders, turning his head in a way that suggested he was about to say something equally awful. “You know a thing or two about blowing ass?”

“I know a thing or two about taking that sushi away.”

“Fine, fine. You’ve never blown ass in your life.”

“Now that,” He pushed the plate he had pulled away from Steve back to him, “Is classified.”

“Gross.” But he grinned.

“Anyway,” Sam moved forward, the only remnant of his statement being the faintest smirk in his voice, “I have a feeling it’s somebody big. Nat doesn’t usually twist arms like this for shit unknowns.”

Steve considered it over a piece of sashimi, brows settling in a thoughtful line. “Maybe. But who’d even play at Stanley’s when there’s so many better options in New York? In Brooklyn alone, even.”

“It’s got that… grungey urban feel but all of the warmth of people who know your name if you go in there enough. You know. That shit kids wax poetic on.”

“No wonder we’re always the oldest people in there.” Steve deadpanned over his beer.. It was annoying being surrounded by dumbass people and seeing the amount of ‘under 21’ Xs on their wrists. Those little shits always pregamed and ruined it for everybody else.

“Don’t remind me. We’re too geriatric for this scene and that’s probably why Nat still wants us to go.”

“It’s funny for her.”

“It’s _hilarious_ for her.” Sam rolled his eyes. “And we’re always falling for it.”

Steve laughed. “Do we ever have a choice?”

Of course not. Sam knew it, too. Enough years with Natasha made that absolutely clear for the both of them. “... Good point.”

“At least we can expect Clint will be making the drinks.”

“He’d better make strong ones, s’all I gotta say.”

Steve couldn’t agree more.

They fell into a comfortable silence. With Natasha and Sam, it was easy to do this. Many of their other friends preferred chatter, but the three of them were accustomed to quiet. Some of Steve’s most fond memories of college were being holled up in someone’s apartment studying, in fact. Total hours would pass without a single word, and yet the company meant more than anything they could talk about.

When Sam spoke minutes later, it wasn't just to fill space.

“So how’s the business?”

He meant, of course, Steve’s artwork. He’d always taken to calling it something like that. With a shrug of his shoulders he picked at another piece of sushi.

“It goes,” his voice almost rueful. “Still slow, but I think when I finish this next piece I’ll be set for holiday commissions.”

Sam nodded, but something sad touched his eyes. Steve hated that look. It wasn't quite pity, of course not, though he couldn't figure out what else was there.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I’ve got enough for this month.”

“ _This_ month?”

“It’ll be alright.” Between rent and loan payments, he wasn't actually sure. But Sam didn't need to know that. None of them did -- the worrying was too much of a toll, and Steve even as the only currently living member of the Rogers family would rather starve and lose his apartment than become a burden for anyone else.

Oh, that tone. That look, even. Steve knew it all too well. “ _Steve_ \--”

“Don't use your therapy voice with me, Sam.” He felt the hurt as soon as he said it and he shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Stubborn perhaps to a fault and a temper sometimes at the expense of someone’s feelings. “I didn't--I’m sorry.”

“I know.” The other nodded, sitting back. Sam was more understanding than Steve deserved, he always was. Following brief silence, he would sigh, shaking his head, now. “I just don't get why you keep acting like nobody wants to help you.”

His reply was indignant because of course he knew how eager his friends were to step in. Their kindness was stifling, almost _too_ much most of the time when he couldn't so easily repay it. “That’s not it."

Sam wanted to keep pushing -- Steve saw it in his face -- but instead he took to his beer, swallowing it away. “... Just don't hesitate, okay?” He said quietly. “We’ve got your back whether you like it or not.”

It wasn’t that easy -- they just couldn’t understand that, even with best intentions -- but he smirked anyway, giving up for now.

“Yeah. I know."

 

 

 

Stanley’s had a surprising crowd outside, but Steve quickly realized it was a Friday night and for most young people, that meant a momentary pause on classes and responsibilities in favor of what the evening could offer. One look at the throngs of kids outside in line doing just this made Steve feel older than dirt. He wasn’t even THAT many years out of college -- only a handful, really, not even the oldest of their friend group -- but there was something about the difference in their energy that made him feel as such. It was like they had yet to realize the harsh reality of student loan debt and no certain career future. Lucky punks.

“They’re so blissfully unaware,” Sam read his mind, studying the crowd with mutual elderly disdain

Steve shivered, pulling his beanie over his ears. “You remember looking like that?”

“Maybe before the first week was up.” He shook his head. “Damn fool I was.”

Steve smirked. “Say it a little louder. Let ‘em here you.”

“It’s not my responsibility to ruin the lives of these kids, Steve.” A pause. “Not without alcohol.”

Spotting Happy, he gave them a knowing nod, stepping aside to let them bypass the line entirely. The kids in the front sneered -- Steve probably would’ve, too, at their age -- and Happy eyed them carefully.

“Got any idea who it is tonight, Hap?” Steve could almost scoff at his own question, even if it was just to make conversation. Of course he knew. How wouldn’t he know?

“Tchh,” A girl toward the front huffed, crossing her arms over the bodice over a rather thin dress for this kind of weather. (Nobody cares about that when you’re a kid, though. If she knew anything about pneumonia, maybe she would. He could show her his medical history, pictures of his lungs. That’d teach her to express herself). “Cutting the line and they don’t even know who’s gonna be there!”

“That’s enough.” Happy was all too eager to step in with a warning. The girl shrunk next to her friend and continued her angry chatter. “I do know, but Nat doesn’t want you two getting any ideas about leaving.”

Right. He rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal? We’re not children.”

“Not all of the time, anyway.” Sam said cheekily.

“What the lady says goes.” Hap waved his arm toward the entrance and Steve, though begrudging, gave him a thankful clap on the shoulder. Sam followed suit, gesture included.

The bar was packed and noisy as hell. More packed and noisy than usual in a way that suggested Natasha wasn’t entirely off about this being a big deal. But she couldn’t always be right, Steve thought with a stifled groan. It was unfair, and yet he knew it was nothing but the truth. Ugh.

“Look at this,” Sam said loud over the music -- some indiscriminate alt track Steve remembered vaguely from high school. “Never seen it so alive!”

Stanley’s wasn’t the biggest place, but it could definitely fit a couple hundred folks in. And it looked poised to try this time around. A crowd had formed, many with drinks (and several more with X’s on their hands), waiting deep in the pit where the stage was lit and empty. By the looks of things, the opener had already cleared out, which at least saved them all the pain of a bad time similar to the last. Steve was almost impressed Natasha bad been so kind to tell them to come _after._

“Remember when The Strokes came?” Steve ducked close to Sam’s ear out of necessity. “Maybe it’s somebody like that.”

“Oh hell. Better find Nat before it gets nuts.”

But first, drinks.

Sam seemed to know this, too, leading Steve over to the bar.

“Sorry, boys. Nobody over the age of 25 is allowed a drink tonight.” The bartender said easily over his work, rattling a cocktail shaker and pouring something vaguely martini into two waiting glasses. It was almost magical, the way the liquid came together in bright layered colors, if not for the fact that the pourer was a total and complete asshole. Two girls eagerly took their offered drinks and giggled with payment and big tips as he winked. “You’ll scare away the kids.”

“As if you don’t scare them enough already.” Steve accused.

Clint simply waved the bills in front of his face before pocketing them into the rather hefty jar behind the counter. “So what ploy did Nat use to get you two out here this time?”

“Is it so hard to believe we wouldn’t just come because she’s our friend?”

Sam snorted. That said enough.

“Absolutely.” Clint agreed, raising his brows at Steve before eyeing the two of them. “Usual?”

“Usual, my man.”

As he prepared the drinks, he continued, “Well it should be good tonight. Wasn’t kidding about that if she said so.”

“It gets your glowing review?” Sam leaned onto the counter. “Ain’t that something.”

Clint worked quick and efficient; in what felt like only moments, both Steve and Sam’s usual -- a stinger and a whiskey smash -- were placed before them. “Decent group of guys. Lead’s born and raised Brooklyn, y’know.”

“So that’s why he’s wasting his time at Stanley’s,” Steve smiled, taking a sip. Damn Clint made a stiff drink. He moved to get his wallet, but as always, the other simply shook his head, waving it off. A free bar show was one thing -- Nat always gave them shit to do backstage if they really wanted to earn it -- but his friends, collectively, were a little too nice sometimes. Steve made a face, offering him a tip anyway.

“Still.” Sam countered Steve, pulling out a tip regardless of what Clint would say or do next, “Doesn’t hurt to know that. Sounds promising, even.”

Clint nodded, taking the cash with a begrudged thanks. “See? Sam’s positive unlike you, Rogers.”

“Forgive me for having a hard time letting go of last time.”

“Always so dramatic. It wasn’t that bad.”

“My man,” Sam cut in, “It _was_ that bad.”

“In any case,” Clint offered them a fancy looking flavored water bottle. “Take that to Nat and have a nice time. I have actual customers to attend to.”

“It’s been a pleasure.” Steve smiled, leaving as Clint waved him away in favor of another set of girls clearly attempting to flirt with him. What an ass. Steve loved him.

Stanley’s had two floors -- the ground floor and the lower pit, where the first bar was, and the upper floor somewhat above the stage. The elevation had the best view, and even some seats and tables in a VIP section to make the whole experience pretty cushy when good enough acts were in town. Just because Steve had only ever seen really crappy acts in college (excluding the aforementioned Strokes, of course) didn’t mean passable entertainment never showed up. It was just… rare. Like the kind of rare that probably meant a certain section of the upper area was more or less dusted off before this evening’s patrons came in. And expensive. Fucking expensive.

Nat was perched nearby the entrance to the upper backstage, perking in that strange disinterested way that only she could perk in seeing them arrive. “Finally. I had thought you’d skipped out.” She reached for the water in Sam’s hand, already knowing it was meant for her.

“Nah.” Except that Steve in particular had really wanted to.

“Just taking our sweet time.” Sam held up his drink as proof. “Looks packed, Nat.”

“You ever see it this big? Not since the Strokes.” Clearly their college friend group had done too much together. Nat leaned over to speak to the other guard working beside her, their words easily lost in the noise around them. When the other nodded, she tilted her own head, leading the three of them toward the back.

“Should be a fun one to hear in The Cage.”

The Cage was where most of the backstage crew -- when not on duty or otherwise completing a task -- could sit and watch whatever act was going on. It had a declining almost bleacher-like setup completely open of any windows or glass but with a dividing wall that prevented the audience from seeing. It was similar to VIP, but a different viewing angle. And equally as rad when you didn’t have to pay a cent for it, which was Steve’s rule of thumb in enjoying most things.

“Are you finally going to tell us who it actually is?” Steve’s tone was almost petulant but he wasn’t really a fan of big secrets, especially not held over him this long.

Natasha threw a glance at Steve and smirked. “Somebody’s excited.”

“I guess you could call it that,” Sam agreed, smirking similarly. As if he didn’t want to know, too, the traitor.

He hated when they did this.

“I will leave.”

“No you won’t.”

Absolutely hated it.

“I won’t,” He agreed angrily. “But come on. First Happy, then Clint. And you! What’s the big damn secret?”

“It’s always more fun to see you like this, Steve.” Natasha teased, smiling with her teeth. “Tell me this,” She said, approaching the hallway toward The Cage. “Would you consider yourself a Howlie?”

Now Steve stopped, his expression deadpan. “What in the _hell_ is that?”

“Steve, you don’t know?” A voice thick with accent carried from the end of the hallway just where The Cage began. Upon looking up he learned it belonged to none other than Wanda, the younger of the two Maximoff twins that looked at him expectantly.

“Apparently not,” He recovered, closing the distance with Sam and Nat in tow and offering the girl a hug.

“I wouldn’t expect him to follow them as you do, sis.” Pietro rolled his eyes but his expression was warm. “Forgive her. She’s rather…. Excited.” He almost seemed surprised about it.

And there _was_ something a little weird about seeing so much energy from her, clad in red and black and her usual dark makeup. She practically bounced on her heels, her smile bright enough to act as spotlight in the show. Usually, she was just as reserved as her appearance always suggested -- and by the look of things, Steve wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

“That will change tonight,” She assured Steve, ignoring her brother entirely. Years of practice, maybe. “Are you a Howlie, Sam?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say I know what that is, Scarlet.”

At least that made two of them, Steve thought. He followed Sam’s confused gaze to Natasha, who studied the scene with her usual quiet amusement.

Wanda looked to Pietro, who made a face at her as if admitting defeat, and she turned back to them with renewed excitement. It looked like she’d been unknowingly given the gift of sharing the secret. “The Howling Commandos, of course! They call their fans Howlies.”

The full name brought back something familiar. Steve blinked, considering it in his mind before finally realizing it all together. “Oh my god, of course. The vets.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Wanda grabbed at his shoulders. “Isn’t this exciting?”

“Look what you’ve done,” muttered Pietro, receiving a shove from Natasha in the process.

What Wanda wouldn’t realize was how very little Steve even knew about them. If he looked at his phone right now, he’d probably find a few of their bigger radio hits, but that was just it. Music disassociated with their actual identities. He probably only remembered the apparently correct veteran identity because of an album cover or something. Knowing Wanda -- who was passionate about her interests with her entire heart -- it would only encourage her to tell him more. Maybe there was truth to what Pietro had said, after all.

“Come on then. It’s going to start soon!”

The younger girl to drag him away just as he heard Sam ask Pietro about classes. Steve often forgot the twins were still in school, set to graduate in the spring, and that was perhaps a testament to how mature they were.

Footsteps behind him confirmed that they were at least still following along, Natasha coming alongside Wanda’s free side.

“I had thought Wanda could tell you more about the Commandos if you wanted.” Natasha grinned at Steve, reading his mind completely. What a horrible set up. This was clearly the more fun option for her.

Steve glowered, but made sure the youngest didn’t see it. “Of course.”

“You’ll love them, Steve.” Wanda assured. “They’re like… deep, but not trying too hard, you know? Like they actually mean what they say.” She had a starry look in her eyes, one Steve knew was completely appropriate for the literature major she was. She’d always had a stylistic, emotional approach to life, which had lead to plenty of intelligent conversations about everything from music to philosophy.

But he couldn’t help himself. “Or maybe they try so hard it comes across like they don’t.”

“Stop that,” She all but whined entirely, smacking his arm as he bit back a grin. “They’re great. Just trust me, okay?”

Wanda lead them to their seats and like clockwork, Natasha had a hand to her earpiece and nodded a bit to herself. “Alright, kids. Get ready. They’re bringing the band out in two minutes.” She gave a short wave before going to her post.

 

 

 

Steve had been somewhat prepared to listen to music (good or bad withstanding).

What Steve hadn’t been prepared for was gawking at the lead singer the entire time.

His bisexuality had never been a secret. In fact, he’d been out to his mother before her passing and if it came up with any of his friends, it didn’t seem to phase him the way it did other people. They’d often been more uncomfortable than he was, even. He knew why -- it was just the country they lived in. Not everyone was as all-accepting as Sarah Rogers had been of her son. But it seemed his nonchalance made it rather non issue for most of his friends, which was in of itself a blessing. Quickly, they grew not to care.

Because J.B. Barnes was hot like a god damn flame and Steve was doing a poor job of hiding how much he’d noticed.

They’d skipped out on any official introductions upon coming onto the stage. Like most bands nowadays, they opted for smoke effects, light movement and drawing out guitar chords to the sound of the crowd’s cheers. They didn’t need to say anything -- these kinds of things always spoke for themselves. A guitar riff started and the shadowy figures on the stage revealed themselves to be 6 men probably just a handful of years older than Steve himself. Drums, bass, keyboard, two guitars… and a voice.

At the helm of it all, Barnes didn’t look anything like a famous musician. Well, none of them did, really, save for a smattering of typical-looking jeans here, piercings there, some thick framed glasses and jackets. It was probably a part of their charm that they didn’t look celebrity -- Wanda’s description of not exactly trying too hard suddenly made all kinds of sense.

As the lead, his hair was a little too long, in a messy short ponytail at the base of his head. Some bang pieces stuck out, framing stubble and grunge in his face and pulling him together in the way that in Steve’s mind shouldn’t have been attractive but totally and completely _was._ They weren’t entirely close enough to see small details… but he was certainly built like a former military man, body held in a presence that suggested as such and commanded the stage.

Even at this distance Steve knew Barnes had model good looks. He was striking and stood out in a sea of sameness, someone you’d notice on the street that didn’t quite fit “average”. Someone who’d probably do well for drawing in figure classes. High cheekbones, a cleft in his chin, a nice jaw... a lopsided smile as he sang…

And his voice. Holy _fuck._

He couldn’t aptly describe the quality of it. Not without short circuiting in his brain from inherent embarrassment and a flush in the cheeks. He wasn’t visibly blushing at all, he hoped, and if anyone asked, he could always just chalk it up to the entire musical experience. That was innocuous enough, right?

God dammit.

Conversely, Wanda would probably do better. If asked, she’d put something together that Steve would hear and completely agree with as far as words could describe. It was low and mature, yet could hit highs that didn’t seem like a normal talent, but like someone who was kind of meant to do this thing with their life. Someone who maybe spent their youth singing in their playroom, doing all kinds of music in school. Just… attached. Steve found himself almost awed by it, taking in the music and the crowd from where he was somewhat removed. The Cage was almost a fly on the wall, observing without necessarily acting out.

The music itself was good, too. If he had to place a genre, alternative made sense, but so did garage rock revival and traces of emo pop punk. It was weird. But good. And the artsy critic he was actually enjoyed listening.

In the blink of an eye, the first few songs came to a close and Barnes would approach the mic.

“Hello, Brooklyn. How the fuck are you?” He purred and smiled as the crowd screamed for their home. Something seized in Steve’s chest but he would absolute admit it to no one. “You’re lookin’ beautiful tonight. Never seen a prettier crowd.”

“He certainly knows how to perform,” Steve heard Pietro mumble distantly. He could only imagine it was due to the way Wanda’s face must’ve lit up seeing and hearing Barnes speak. If she was even half as smitten as Steve was--no. He was not. Stop that.

“This one’s our favorite show of the whole tour. Overseas ain’t got shit on you.” He pushed his bangs from his eyes, glancing at his bandmates with a glow in his smile.

“I didn’t think we’d come back on this one but I’m home. I’m fuckin’ home.” Cue appropriate screams and cheers. “This next one’s for your grit and shit. I fuckin’ love you, Brooklyn.”

And Brooklyn screamed how much they loved him back.

 

 

 

It was several hours later that the show would come to a close, following a crazy ovation and another three song encore.

“Well,” Sam said as Nat rejoined them in The Cage. “You were right.”

She didn’t need the ammunition, but Sam was much kinder than Steve in this regard, who promptly crossed his arms and said nothing to add.

“Hm.” The redhead hummed and smiled, turning her gaze to Steve. “And you?”

“... It wasn’t bad.”

“Is that all?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, maintaining his ground of indifference. She certainly made it look easy. “Better than last time.” Was all he’d admit.

“I’ll take it,” And she looked at him like she knew the truth. How did she always do that?

The group fell into idle chatter, Clint having appeared at some point to say his hellos. Out of the corner of his eye -- as Wanda chattered away to Pietro with more outward enthusiasm than he’d perhaps ever see her express in their friendship -- Steve saw crew member approach Natasha with two small lanyards. She trailed a hand on his arm -- oh jesus, what had she done? -- before turning back at the group.

“So I’ve got two Meet & Greets.”

The gasp on his right was none other than Wanda.

“One must go to Wanda, of course.” She carefully dangled the lanyard over her head and she grabbed it with a quick swipe, grinning ear to ear. “And the other--”

“I’ll take it.” Steve would?

“You will?” Sam side eyed.

Well. Yeah.

Before he could even think about it, he was taking it from Natasha’s offered hand. The thought process quickly caught up with him, but not quickly enough to take it back. Guess he was rolling with it. “You know--” He backtracked. “To make sure none of them try to make a pass at Wanda.”

Did any of them buy it? Probably not, but Pietro spoke up and unknowingly did him the favor of moving on. “Perfect. I would surely kill them if they tried.” He smiled and yet nobody thought he was kidding. It was something about the accent.

“Well let’s go, then,” The younger girl was dragging Steve off (again), not bothering to wait for Natasha despite not knowing the way.

“Have fun?” He heard Sam say distantly.

What he wouldn’t see was Clint dig his elbow into Sam’s ribs, who rolled his eyes and mouthed “I know.”

 

 

 

Moments later, they stood in front of the door. On the tiny white board placard someone had written “Commandos” in scrawly text, clearly in a rush. A classy affair, clearly. Both Steve and Wanda wore their lanyards and Natasha, being on staff, had of course no reason for one.

“It’s just you guys, okay? They did some before the show and are doing this special because I called in some favors.” She raised a brow, attempting to pass off how tremendous of a deal it was. Typical.

“Oh, Natasha, I can’t believe it,” Wanda said softly. She wouldn’t stop smiling, and it was frankly too endearing for Steve’s icy heart. She wasn’t much shorter than him, admittedly, but over the years there was something very little sister about her even if she wasn’t always this overtly adorable.

Nat must’ve felt the same; she softened with a nod. “You’ll just have to see for yourself, sweetheart. Go on in.”

Wanda approached the door handle and with a deep breath, opened it up.

The place was just as smokey as the bar, but perhaps more freshly potent in the smaller quarters, because Steve wanted to cough as soon as the door opened up. Stanley’s used to be smoke friendly, and it seemed they didn’t give much a shit to enforce the change on their performers, because one of the Commandos had a lit cigarette in his hand and was in the process of taking a drag before glancing up at their entrance. “Hey there, kids.” He said, unperturbed. What an impressive mustache. “You must be Wanda’n Steve! Said you were comin’ in to chat.”

There was a second cigarette in the mix. Call it his asthmatic senses tingling, but he wasn’t wrong, noticing another Commando (?) with one in his teeth. He smiled around it. “Sit with us, won’t you?” His accent sounded french.

One glance at Wanda’s face and he had to bite back a smile. She was mesmerized, watching the group of 5 with the same attentiveness she paid something of the utmost life and death priority. --5?

The most distinct of them all was missing. Barnes.

Steve hated that he noticed. His throat tickled. Damn smoke.

Shyly, Wanda moved to sit beside the vaguely French one. He had a kind face, not as rugged as the others, who remained quiet for now. Steve slid in on her free side.

“It’s nice to meet you,” She began, and Steve nodded along.

“Thanks for having us.” He added a bit tightly. The smoke was killer.

“Oh sure, sure.” French Commando said, not noticing. “Happy to have you.”

“You prob’ly know, but in case you don’t -- that’s Dernier, Gabe, Morita, Falsworth,” He named them all off, the quieter members giving their greetings each time, “And y’can call me Dugan--ah. For Christ’s sake.” He leaned back and with a vocal volume he had definitely not been using in the last two minutes, “SARGE. Would you get the fuck out here and greet the good people!?”

“You wanna fuckin’ wait a minute? Worse than my MA.” Said a voice farther away, perhaps in a separate room? This dressing room wasn’t even that big--

“Y’wouldn’t talk to your Ma like this you pissbrat.”

“Cause my Ma ain’t nothin’ like your punk ass!”

And the rest of them grew to chattering at this, talking over one another and immediately revealing why they were called Howlers at all.

Wanda seemed entirely enthused, watching the scene and glancing at Steve with a smile that said _aren't they just amazing?_ He wasn't certain if he could agree.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Dernier asked over the noise. “I apologize on their behalf.”

“Oh, no, it’s--” Wanda laughed quietly. “You’re all quite like a family. It’s nice.”

And that much was true, Steve thought. If anything, such a display of back and forth only sought to try humanize these men who were of the utmost celebrity. Dernier’s kind voice and Dugan’s insistence on treating them with manners made an impression on Steve.

And he was pretty hard to impress, all things considered.

“More like a zoo, dear.” Dernier assured her, and she laughed more. Now that Steve could agree with.

Moments later, Sarge -- Barnes -- would finally step out. And Steve had to keep himself from staring because, christ. Sweet christ.

The man had lost his jacket from the show, in a simple ripped up t-shirt with some faded text reading “GUN SHOW” and other indiscriminate words. Dark jeans. Chunky boots. And his arms were littered with tattoos -- the most striking of all being the sleeve that went over the expanse of his left arm, right down to his hands. It had been made to look like shiny metal, gritty and worn, the bottom of what appeared to be a red star etched just under his shirt sleeve. Steve had never seen anything quite like it, and for fuck’s sake, he was an art major.

He’d reached the conclusion in a matter of seconds that Barnes was even more startling in person -- eyes that could cut glass with how bright they were on his skin, surveying the room as he made his entrance. It was many things if not completely unfair.

“Some of us have families who wanna see us while we’re home, dillweed.” Were the first words out of his mouth, and yet even his low voice made them sound like words of love--wait, what?--to Dugan, who snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Ma taught you better manners than this, takin’ a call right before we get some nice company.” The other responded, taking an indignant drag of his cigarette.

“Now, now,” One of the more quiet (if you could even make the distinction) Commando’s poked out from where he’d sunk into the plush (and kind of disgusting) couch. Morita, Dugan had said. “We’ve made some introductions but were waiting on you.”

“Betcha Sarge wasn’t even callin’ his Ma. Just checkin’ his own ugly puss in the mirror to make sure he looked pretty.”

He didn’t need to confirm what was already true, Steve thought bitterly.

“You think I’d lie with my Ma involved?”

“God in heaven, would you both stop?” Another one on the couch rolled his eyes. Falsworth. “You’re making a terrible impression.”

And that’s when all of them -- Barnes included -- turned their gaze on Wanda and Steve. Steve almost wanted to draw his shoulders in at how pointed they could all be, staring like that, but something familiar pricked in his chest and he puffed up, sitting up taller, raising his chin. This was the same way he’d faced any other hulking man in the past who’d stood over him. The circumstances, of course, were absolutely different, but his narrow frame didn’t seem to know the difference. Nor did his stupid, stubborn head. It never listened.

“My apologies,” Barnes was all charm, now, sidling up to Wanda first. “Wanda, right? Call me Bucky, sweetheart.”

Wanda looked about ready to die, taking his hand with two of her own. Steve, meanwhile, couldn’t help himself: _“Bucky?”_

Behind him at the door, Natasha made a noise that was nearly indistinguishable, which she chose to cover with a cough. Maybe it was rude to ask -- but that was fucking ridiculous, celebrity or no. _Bucky?_ Sounded like a cartoon character, star of his own Saturday morning special you’d watch in your pjs with a bowl of sugary cereal. But at least Steve knew (sometimes) when to quit and didn’t actually voice that afterthought aloud.

Bucky in question looked at him, now, something like surprise and amusement (?) in his face. Had nobody actually asked him what in hell that absurd nickname was about? Or maybe it was just something all of the other Howlies knew, so how stupid was Steve, even, for asking? The way he looked at him, Steve wasn’t sure, and it was almost irritating. He couldn’t read him.

“Short for Buchanan. Middle name.”

Oh. Still weird. Who the fuck names their kid Buchanan? “Then what’s the J for?”

“James,” He waved dismissively. “Only Ma calls me that. And she’s been in too many conversations this evening, thanks.” Steely eyes looked back at his bandmates, some who snickered at this, before returning attention to the guests.

“So Wanda. And… Steve,” Bucky paused, giving the blonde a curious look as he got his name correct. His eyes stayed on him a little longer before glancing to Wanda again. “How’d you like it?”

Asking about the show, of course, in a manner that Steve realized was, probably, extremely typical of these meetings. He and Wanda weren’t any more special than the other people who’d probably fell all over themselves getting to talk to these vets. He suspected if he said anything like this to his friends, however, they’d peg him not only as ungrateful but a total downer. _Steve Rogers, Cynic and Critic_ , they often crooned whenever Steve tried to make similar commentary. It wasn’t his fault that people -- and society -- could be so damn transparent.

“Incredible,” Wanda filled the space as he mulled this over silently. “I never thought you’d come back here in the middle of your overseas dates but I’m so-- it’s just--” God, if only Pietro could see his younger sister struggle to put two words together in the face of one Bucky Barnes, apparent musical heartthrob. Bucky probably wouldn’t have that perfect smile for long--wait, no. It was just an average smile. Just regular. Whatever.

“I loved it.” She finished plainly, a blush across her cheeks.

“Well, thank you.” And something in Bucky’s face had changed, listening to her like she was the most important creature on Earth. It spoke genuine gratitude that Steve couldn’t say he expected, because didn’t Bucky know they were talented? He couldn’t be so unaware, not with the extremely apparent fanfare that seemed to follow these guys wherever they went as of late. Even Steve, only truly learning of their band’s name hours earlier, could see this to be true.

Weren’t all of these celebrity types the same?

“We love bein’ here,” He said in continued earnest, taking a look around the room. “The guys aren’t Brooklyn like me, but learned to love it like I do. Even moved here to start this little thing.” Downplaying. Steve watched him carefully. Was he really that humble?

“After your tours ended, right?” Wanda asked shyly, as if she didn’t know just about everything (within reason) one could know about these guys.

“Somebody’s done her homework.” Gabe, from the farther couch, praised.

“Yeah.” Bucky added, leaning back in his seat and folding an ankle over his opposite knee. “Couple’a years ago we decided to give it a try and here we are… People like you, y’know?” He gave Wanda a soft look, who flushed further. Steve would have to tease her about this all but mercilessly later on. He’d never seen her so _taken._

“So thank you, really.”

“Your support’s a lot to us.” Dernier agreed.

“Couldn’t do any of it without you.” Morita’s nod was sage.

“Here, here!” Dugan threw his head back and the boys each gave a whoop.

So maybe they were that humble. And weirdly human. And… endearing, if you squinted. But it didn’t change how ridiculous they were collectively. And the feeling in his chest wasn't something like admiration. It was asthma and nothing more.

The boys kept up some idle chatter between them, but Bucky seemed fixated on the two of them instead. “So what’s your story then, Steve?”

“My story?” He mirrored, blinking at being addressed individually.

“Yeah. Other than callin’ out guys on their nicknames.” His smile was cheeky, oddly enough like a cat talking to the mouse before it was to snap its teeth.

So Steve had been rude and Bucky had noticed. Noted for later, not that he’d ever have a later with this guy so it probably didn’t matter. Steve shrugged, attempting to be casual and play it off. “I paint.”

“Paint?”

“He’s excellent.” Wanda added, and Steve felt his ears burn.

“I’m okay--” College educated, even. But so humble he wished to deflect, deflect, _deflect--_

“Hm.” Bucky tilted his head, biting the corner of his mouth as he considered it. Was he attempting to look overtly sexual? Christ. He needed some cold water and a stern talking to.

He was almost sinfully attractive, sure. And Steve hated it and would not be lured in like any of the thousands or millions of people who thought the same. But with him sitting in front of him, eyes trained on his every word, expectant, teeth curled around his lip--

Fuck. Fuck!

“So you’re some artist? No wonder you’re Brooklyn.”

“I was raised here, y’know.” He said a bit tightly.

“I can tell, trust me.” And Bucky smiled in a way Steve hated even more. “Y’got that fight. Haven’t once set your shoulders since I walked in. Think I’m gonna bite you, pal?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Wanda looking between them with renewed interest.

Bucky was right. And Steve truly could not hate another person more than he hated Bucky, probably. Even if it was a dull flame, it was a flame, and he huffed at the other’s suggestion, shrugging. “Not in front of Wanda.”

At Steve’s response, Bucky’s face did that same amused-surprised thing from earlier. Was this piece of shit trying to flirt with him? “True. She’s a nice girl--”

He was poised to continue, but was interrupted by the sound of his phone in his pocket. “Hey, sorry, it’s probably just my Ma again.”

Steve ignored the pang of warmth he felt over this guy’s sincere attentiveness to his mother as Bucky moved to pick up the phone. “Yeah? Oh, hey Fury. We just wrapped up in--” A pause. His brows came together, a crease settling as he listened. “You’re shitting me. What the fuck.” He seemed to forget his audience, a look in his eyes that mirrored his apparent upset in words. “Fuck. Okay.” His face folded further. “Alright. Yeah. Shit, alright, I’ll tell ‘em.” And he hung up, standing to face his bandmates.

“Bad news, boys.”

They each perked from their conversations, looking up at Bucky with attention.

“Sarge?” Dugan leaned forward.

He ran a hand through his hair, collecting his thoughts on the news. “Rumlow fuckin’ quit.”

“What--”

“Took a fuckton of his management team with him.”

“Oh, goodness.” Dernier frowned.

“Are you busting my nuts right now? Sarge, I’ll kick your ass--”

“Of course not! That fucker quit sittin’ pretty on his paycheck and left us with almost nobody to tour with!” Bucky, exasperated, fell back into his chair.

Wanda’s face had become a permanent frown; Steve, meanwhile, looked around the room with a similar sadness in his brow. Whatever he’d been thinking moments before simply didn’t matter -- this was, he could tell, a huge blow to their career. Disappointment hung in the air. Steve searched Bucky’s expression and found a strange pull in his heart.

"Did he say why?" Morita said, voice level.

"Fury said he took off and ran. Didn't tell anyone anything."

"What in the fuck! I knew that fuckin' piece of shit was no good, fuckin' two time greedy motherfuck goin' after money, smarmy douchefuck--"

“We’re out a manager… and we start tour next week.” Gabe deadpanned.

“Luck's run out. Christ.”

A silence. A painful one, at that.

“... Not necessarily.”

“The fuck, Dernier, there’s no way we’re going to find someone qualified in just a few days time--”

“Maybe not."

Steve blinked. Natasha?

The boys seemed equally confused, watching the redhead emerge from where she’d merely been observing in the background.

On her face was an expression that Steve recognized as one of her classic ideas in motion -- as in, she was making this up with every passing moment. Her mouth moved, stuck on thought, before she managed to soften to a smile…. And put her hands on Steve’s shoulders.

What?

“Steve can do it.”

WHAT?

And now six -- no, seven, including poor Wanda -- pairs of eyes stared at him in a mix of disbelief and perhaps mild horror.

“I--What?” Steve scrambled. WHAT!!!

“The hell you thinkin’, Red?” Dugan mirrored his own doubt because what the fuck!

“Does he have _any_ experience?” Gabe, who now held his head in his hands. Same, buddy.

“Nat, please--" His voice almost didn't work, several embarrassing octaves higher than it should be.  "I--”

What the _fuck_ was she thinking!? This wasn’t just playtime or pretend; this was an entire _monopoly_ of success, a fucking _famous band_ and if he could hardly manage his _own_ god damn life how in the fuck _hell_ was he supposed to manage six of the most _important_ performers in--

“Steve.”

He’d nearly jumped at Bucky’s voice -- Bucky who was now mere inches away from his face. God, his eyes were so blue, a hint of green like the sea. Bright as starlight. What the fuck!

“Could you--I mean.” And oh my god, he looked so fucking apologetic. Like this was somehow his fault when it couldn’t possibly… his gaze fell to his hands before those very hands took to Steve’s arms. Natasha, above him, moved away, not that he could notice anything but Bucky’s gaze stuck onto his.

“Sarge, you’re not seriously...” But Dugan’s protest seemed to melt in the air, for he stopped talking entirely. Steve wouldn’t see the group as a whole staring at them with baited breath.

“This is nuts, but.” Bucky kind of smiled, something helpless and _young_ in his expression though Steve could tell he was older than he. “We kinda… we built this on nuts, y’know? I-if there was any small chance…” He swallowed, looking up at Steve with more genuity than anyone could possibly deserve. “We’d… god. Just for the tour. Whatever you wanted… we’d do it.”

There was no trace of hesitance in Bucky’s expression. Like he really believed he could do it from sheer hope alone. Steve could hardly believe it, having maintained eye contact with all of his willpower because the strength of Bucky’s stare was almost too much. Were people even built this earnest anymore? It’d be so easy to say no, and yet it would possibly be the hardest task to accomplish when the man looked at him this way. Did he know that? Was this what made him an icon in music and perhaps life, all things considered? Steve’s lips folded into a thin line.

...This could be a paycheck. This would keep him alive for several more months. No more handouts, not for a while. The tour would end and he’d be done, able to support himself and his artwork and have an experience to talk about. See the world. Maybe even get his name out there as an artist. What the fuck did he know about management? Absolutely nothing. And the music industry? Nothing noteworthy in this case.

But before he could stop himself,

“... Okay. Yeah.”

His voice was thick, nodding, watching Bucky’s expression slowly change like he’d just changed his whole life,

“I’ll do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos help me sleep at night! Find me on tumblr (mameido) and twitter (@bymameido), always happy to chat. Thanks for reading! See you soon! xoxo


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